Slow Motion
by AfterTheFall
Summary: It's rated R, so don't complain that I did not warn you kiddies :P More Sev-angst, written while listening to Neon Ballroom (Silverchair)


**Slow Motion**

_By G-Y-B-R-F-E_

* * *

_Erupt again ignore the pill  
__And I won't let it show  
__Sacrifice the tortures  
__Orchestral tear cash-flow  
__Increase delete escape defeat  
__It's all that matters to you  
__Cotton case for an iron pill  
___

_Distorted eyes  
__when everything is clearly dying_

__****

He's silently screaming in his sleep again, thrashing out at terrifying monster, unseen by the rest of us. His arms swinging violently, his legs kicking into the air as he tangles himself up in his sheets.

Someone should try and wake him, maybe talk to him. Someone should at least _care_ that a thirteen-year-old boy is suffering nightmares night after night. Everyone in this room probably thinks that, just as each of us are praying that another will take on the responsibility.

Nobody ever does. We leave him to dwell in his unforeseen land of horrors, because we don't care. Not really. It's just the way we are. It's easier that way, to make disposable allies as opposed to real friends.

It's rare to make a true friend in these dungeons, to find someone you can truly connect and interact with, simply because you like their company. No, you get close to someone because they have something you want, or they can help you get it.

He has few allegiances, and those he does have are based on such ideals. He's a smart kid, his skills are unsurpassed in his year, and as such, others feel a need to exploit them.

Myself included.

I do have a conscious, somewhere, deep beneath my ambition and aspirations; I do think what I do it wrong.

Sometimes.

At times like this, in the dead of the night, when all that can be heard is his whimpering, his incomprehensible pleading, I wonder if what I do is right. I take him for all he's worth, his skills, his intelligence, his need for someone to notice his existence and I manipulate his weakness into what I need and take it all.

Yet, I leave him to battle his own nightmares alone. Nightmares I no doubt, helped create.

But I know it is not all me.

I've seen others bully him mercilessly.

I've seen the fresh bruises that travel with him come September.

I _know _he is mistreated.

And yet, I do not care, even if deep down, I know I should.

It has me wondering, what horror he is duelling with tonight.

His father? The bullies? His teachers? Me?

But it never is, for no matter how much he fears them, there is always someone he fears more.

Himself.

What he is.

What he will become.

I've seen the scars, Severus. I know why you wear those robes that cover you completely, even in the sweltering summer sun, you refuse to show you skin. Scared to show the scars, ones from your father. From me. From yourself.

Remember? The way you'd whimper under my silver dagger, Severus? As the cold metal broke the skin, sending rivulets of red blood across your arm? I remember, your warm blood. Your tears. Your fear. It was intoxicating, Severus.

Or perhaps you weren't covering up. Perhaps you were simply hoping the suffocating robes would swallow you whole. So you would not have to face Black and Potter. Your father. Me. Yourself.

I would see you, scrubbing at your hands, trying to clear away the dirt and filth only you could see. I would watch with morbid fascination as the clear water turned red, as tears fell silently down your face. Yet you kept going, kept scrubbing as your blood from your raw hands mixed with the water, you refused to stop until you were clean.

But you never got clean, did you Severus? No matter who hard you tried, it was impossible for you.

I watched, a smirk no doubt across my lips as you fell to the ground, crying freely, grasping the basin, your bloodstained hands leaving their mark.

Still, I did not help.

I did not care.

I have seen you truly break down, Severus.

Remember, your visit to Hogsmead, last month? Remember that man? His smell. His touch.

Of cause you do.

You tried for days to get it off you. The firewhiskey of which he reeked, his alcoholic breathe on your face. His fingers on your pale skin.

You cried, didn't you?

I saw you, afterwards.

You waited, until everyone had gone to bed to shower that night. You didn't know I was there, did you? I was there as you let the hot water scaled you lithe frame. You scrubbed you skin raw, until once again, your blood mingled with water and went down the drain. I watched as you collapsed, into a tiny ball in the corner, rocking back and forth as you cried.

You cry a lot, Severus. Not that people would guess, not with the front you put on. You look so cold and emotionless, even if they look into your eyes, they see nothing but black, empty voids. People question if you even _feel_.

But you do. I know you do. You feel more than most do in an entire lifetime. And it scares you, doesn't it? You hate feeling because it all ends in pain and fear, at least for you.

I wonder if the professors know what your father does? What I do? What _you_ do?

Dumbledore, that muggle-loving fool, believes he knows everything that goes on in this castle. Yet he hasn't even tried to save you, Severus.

Perhaps he doesn't know.

Maybe, like everyone else, he doesn't care.

We are, after all, Slytherins.

The house of evil.

The house nobody cares for.

I watch for a few more minutes, as you twist and turn, giving into your nightmares. You let them win, just like you let everyone else win. Your face contorts in pain, before you go limp, as if you have passed out.

And I still don't care, not really.

With one last look, I leave you to face another day. Another day you will hate. Another day you will wish for your death. Another day nobody will reach out and help you.

Pushing my conscious deep down, to a place I can almost forget it exists, I return to my own room, my thoughts now all on the Quiditch game I'd be playing this coming Saturday.

In the dead on the night, when all I can hear are your tiny whimpers, everything always seems worse. I almost feel horrible for what I do.

Almost.

* * *

Lyrics are from Silverchair's _'Emotion Sickness'_

Please, let me know what you though if it – the good the bad and the ugly :)

Cheers!


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